


where your love begins

by Euphemius



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boston Bruins, M/M, Montreal Canadiens, Pining, Relationship Study, brendan is a bruin, chucky fails with feelings, chucky's nickname is actually gally, overprotective chucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-21 00:02:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2447948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euphemius/pseuds/Euphemius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As far as Alex knows, he leads one of the hardest lives in the NHL. He has a best friend who won't stop making dick jokes, a sister and team who could give less of a shit about his problems sometimes, and he happens to maybe like men while participating in the most no-homo sport on Earth. </p><p>Oh, and he's also completely smitten with Brendan Gallagher of the Boston Bruins.</p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for the presence of Bruins in this story.

Alex hears about Brendan Gallagher long before he actually gets a chance to meet the guy. The winger’s already made a name for himself, despite having only played in the NHL for (half) a season. He’s a pest. Alex himself can attest to that — when they finally play the Bruins, all he ever sees Gallagher do is create uncomfortable traffic around Carey with a couldn’t-care-less smile slapped on his face.

God, how that smile pisses him off.

During one of their pre-season games of the new year, Alex is banging his stick against the ice and yelling at one of his lineys to pass to him when Gallagher suddenly flies out of nowhere like a fucking bird-of-prey and steals the puck from them. It’s the third time that night Alex’s line has caused a turnover, and though they’re not playing for the Cup, his cheeks still flush with anger. He’s too competitive _not_ to get angry. 

The last straw comes when Carey pushes Gallagher out of his crease just a little too hard and the winger falls _sideways_ …conveniently positioned in such a way that he drags the whole net down with him. 

The penalty’s given to Montreal. 

“Hey,” Alex says to Gallagher when the puck’s been iced and the Bruin doesn’t have it anymore. “They spelled ‘dirty prick’ wrong on the back of your jersey.” 

Gallagher turns to look at him, face full of surprise. The edges of his lips quirk upwards a little, and Alex thinks that if the Bruin smiles at him, he may truly lose his shit. "Excuse me?” 

“Yeah,” Alex drives on. He gets right up in Gallagher’s face — which isn’t hard, considering he has almost five inches on the guy. Their visors make a tapping sound on contact. “That all you and the Bruins good for nowadays? Going after netminders, then drawing penalties to win games?” 

Gallagher side-eyes him before shaking his head in amusement. He’s already skating away with no hint of worry in his eyes. “You think you’re really tough, don’t you?” he asks Alex, and _fuck yeah_ Alex thinks he’s tough. Well, tougher than this know-it-all VIP, at least. 

“What?” Alex calls after him. “You’re not gonna get mad? You’re just gonna slide away and take that?” 

“No,” Brendan says, before his face breaks into this wide-ass smile and Alex’s temper rises about two hundred percent. “I’m gonna do _this_. Hey, guys, look! Look at this tough guy here! We got ourselves a tough guy!” 

The Bruins, god damn them, _actually_ look. One thing about them is that they _always_ defend their own, even if ‘their own’ includes a scrawny one-sixty pound still-technically-a-rookie playing in a pre-season game. Alex doesn’t give them the chance to skate over, though — he grabs Gallagher from behind and clamps him into a headlock. He doesn’t let go — not even when Gallagher thrashes about like a fish and gets in a good elbow to his ribs (he only _oofs_ and tightens his grip), and not even when Gallagher starts to make concerning choking noises. 

It takes two refs and a Bruin d-man to pull Alex off. When he _does_ let go, Gallagher falls to the ground spluttering and gasping and clutching his neck. Alex wants to protest this _obvious_ exaggeration, but he knows he’s already too pissed for his own good and he doesn’t tend to make rational decisions or say rational things when he’s pissed. So he just skates away coolly to the penalty box, whipping his helmet off his face and rubbing the sweat from his eyes. 

He’s never understood hockey rivalries that well before, but now everything is clear as day to him. 

Alex Galchenyuk really, _really_ hates the Boston Bruins. 

And he hates Brendan Gallagher even more. 

 

 

Gio very firmly tells him off. “We don’t act that way here,” he says, as though Alex hasn’t been playing with the Canadiens for a season already. “I understand that the Bruins can get under our skin sometimes. They’re one of our biggest rivals. But we deal with it _maturely_ , and as a _team_. Leave the bullying and unsportsmanlike conduct to _them_.”

Alex wants to protest because he _wasn’t_ ‘bullying’ or acting ‘unsportsmanlike’, thank you very much. He was just giving Brendan Gallagher what he rightfully deserves. But he nods his head instead and apologizes to his captain and waits for Gio to forgive him, like Gio always does.

When Alex gets home, he makes a beeline straight for Anna’s room so he can moan to her about how totally cruel the world was being to him. 

“I mean, he plays _so_ unfairly,” he says in Russian, as Anna lies across his legs with her head hanging off the bed, squeezing a small exercise ball in her hands. “The refs never say a damn thing because he doesn’t cross any lines, per say. He just. Walks on them. More like, he triple back flips on them while grinning the sun blind. Is that an expression? Grinning the sun blind? It should be. That’s how damn bright it is — his grin. Want to see?” He grabs his phone to search up Gallagher’s face, even though he can tell that Anna doesn’t really care.

“I want a latte,” Anna says contemplatively. 

Alex flips through waves of pictures of Gallagher on Google Images, trying to find the dumbest-looking one to show Anna so that it’s easier to convince her to sympathize with him. The flood of gold and black pictures practically makes him physically nauseous. He finally finds one of the Bruin that looks like it was taken mid-pubescence, complete with a face full of acne and an appallingly short, sad haircut. “Look,” he says forcefully, shoving his phone in Anna’s face.

Anna hums. “Yeah. Totally. If we ever need an Olympic gymnast who can do a triple back flip on a tightrope _and_ play in the NHL, he’s our go-to man.” She casually brushes his phone away and goes back to squeezing her ball.

“Plus, did you see his smile? Too damn bright, right?” 

“Mhm. Grinning the sun blind — or, whatever, you freak. Hey, can you go get me a latte?”

Alex gets Anna a latte, even though the nearest Tim Hortons is a twenty minute walk from their house. He’s whipped when it comes to his sister. 

 

 

“Look,” Prusty tells him with an exasperated I-don’t-want-to-deal-with-this-shit edge in his voice. “You have to stop this, Gally.” He’s probably referring to how Alex hasn’t ceased yammering about Brendan and his dumb face for the past week in the locker room.

Alex yanks on his skate laces viciously and scowls at his winger. “ _Don’t_ call me that,” he snaps. “I learned yesterday that the Bruins call _him_ Gally. I don’t want to share the same nickname as _him_.”

Prusty blinks. “But you’ve always been Gally.”

“Yeah, well, not anymore. Alex is fine. Alexander. Al. Lex. Alessandro. Sasha. Sanya. Whatever. Did you know,” he huffs, “that we’ve both been playing in the NHL for the same number of years and yet he’s put up more points than me?”

Prusty rubs his temples. “It’s too early for this bullshit,” he sighs, even though it was 5 PM on a game night. 

“Hey,” Alex says, standing up and moving around a bit to see if his skates are tight enough on his feet. “I know I’ve been a _little_ obsessed lately.” 

“Just a little?”

Alex pushes Prusty into the wall because screw him. Prusty laughs and bats at Alex’s head, but Alex expertly dodges it. “I’ll stop, alright?” he promises, though in his mind he’s thinking _yeah, right_. It’s not like he has an actual problem or anything. He just needs to have someone he can complain to — to let off steam with. Obviously Prusty is not worthy of fulfilling that role.

He waits until Prusty has left the locker room before quickly grabbing his phone and sending a furious text to Nail.

 _Emergency_. 

Nail replies in less than a minute later. 

_what is it? u ok?? is it anna??? is she ok???? did anna get a new boyfriend????? i told u to tell her to save herself 4 me!!_

Nail is an _ass_. No matter how many times Alex has told him to lay off his sister, Nail never listens. Apparently he doesn’t value their friendship enough, or some shit. _No. I need someone to whine to about Brendan Gallagher. Brandon Prust has failed me and you’re his replacement._

_…fuck off, gally._

_!!can people please not call me that anymore!!_

“Hey,” someone calls, and Alex quickly looks up. “What the hell are you still doing here?” Pleky asks when he sees Alex in full gear, texting on his phone, and crouched in the corner of the locker room. “Get on the ice! We have warm-ups!” 

“Sir, yes, sir,” Alex mutters before following Pleky out of the room. He can think about Gallagher later. 

 

 

For Alex, “later” means immediately after the game, still sweaty and fuming over his missed shots, when he turns on his phone and updates all his sports newsfeeds to check if there are any new updates on the Bruins since three hours ago. 

There aren’t any.

“Give me that,” snaps Prusty before he grabs Alex’s phone out of his hand. “You are seriously getting out of control, _Alessandro_. If you don’t stop stalking that Bruin like he’s the new Jesus, I’m going to tell Gio.”

“Tell me what?” Gio asks, coming out of nowhere and scaring the crap out of him and Prusty. Nobody ever sees Gio coming because he’s so short. Damn short people to hell.

“Nothing,” Alex says, because denial is always his go-to response when he can’t think of a proper response quickly enough. Alex snatches his phone back and storms away to the showers, but not before throwing over his shoulder: “I wouldn’t stalk Jesus! That’s so fucking rude.”

Later, when he passes one of the random cleaning employees in a hallway, he asks, “Can you believe the next time we play the Bruins is in _November?_ ” 

The employee blinks at him. “It’s mid-October,” he says unhelpfully, like Alex didn’t already know that.

But Alex is generally a nice guy and he gives the employee a little ass-tap with his stick. What was the employee’s name again? Scott, right? “Thanks, Scott.” 

Scott stares at him. “It’s Michael, actually.”

“Whatever.”

He just can’t wait to get home so he can read Gallagher’s Wikipedia article again. 

 

 

“You know the Bruins, right?” Alex says, voice concentrated and brows pinched together. His eyes are scanning the texts he got from his ‘scouts’ — AKA, non-NHL hockey players who have connections with people in the league. 

It's been two weeks.

“Mhm,” Anna responds a little absently. She’s licking chocolate pudding off a spoon and watching the first season finale of _Suits_. “I know who the Bruins are.”

“I have reports coming to me saying that they take Brendan drinking with them after games.”

“So what? And since when do you call him ‘Brendan’ now?” 

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” Alex says with a wave of his hand. He rolls off the couch and goes to stand in front of the TV so Anna can concentrate better on what he has to say. Anna makes a noise of disgust and tries to nudge Alex out of the way with her foot, but Alex’s entire job depends on his ability to not get pushed around by other people and he manages to stay firmly put. Brendan Gallagher is more important than a show about some jackets, anyway. “The point is that Brendan’s only twenty-one, which just _barely_ makes him of legal drinking age in Massachusetts. I mean, not that it matters to me, but how am I supposed to beat the crap out of him if his ass is rotting in jail? This is _very_ irresponsible of the Bruins organization and of their captain. I was disappointed in the behaviour of this team before but now I am utterly disgusted by it. I think I may have to file a report.”

“Alex, get out of my way,” Anna snarls, before hooking Alex’s waist with her legs and pulling him towards her, probably so she can punch him more easily. Alex twists away from her, eyes still trained on his phone. 

“ _And_ —” he says, holding up a hand. “And — get this, Anna, get this. _Ow_ — take your bony legs off me — alright, get this. My scout here says, _I have a friend who went drinking with them this one time and he says that they pick on Brendan more than any of their other younger players because he’s the shortest guy on their team_. Can you believe that, Anna? The Bruins don’t even treat their rookies properly. This is probably why Brendan didn’t really react to my witty chirps on the ice — because the Bruins have insulted him so much they've turned him into an emotionless, hockey-playing _robot_. The Bruins really are all full of shit.” 

“Brendan Gallagher isn’t a rookie anymore,” Anna says calmly before getting up and smearing a fistful of chocolate pudding across Alex’s face and then planting herself firmly on the ground, two feet away from the television. “And he’s perfectly allowed to drink, especially with his teammates. Not that anyone follows the drinking age anyway. Alex, you’re _younger_ than him by two years.”

“Why would you take their side, Anna?” Alex despairs, before wiping some pudding off his face with his thumb and eating it. Anna casts him a look of mild distaste. “I thought we were blood.”

“I will honest-to-God _spill_ your blood if you don’t shut the hell up and let me watch my show.”

_So_ , Alex texts Nail as he moodily lies down on the couch and pulls a blanket over his head. _My own family has betrayed me. My teammates don’t understand me. You’re the only one I have left now, Nail._

_Why are you like this_ , Nail texts back. 

_We don’t like the Bruins_ , Alex responds. _They misguide their youth to inebriated adventures and take advantage of them through the power of Zdeno Chara’s freaky tallness. Brendan probably feels outcast and exploited and all alone, the only short rookie on a team of skyscraper-tall-CN-tower-tall-Amazon-tree-tall outliers._

 _I can’t believe you’re talking about another man in the league in such an affectionate way. Please love yourself, Gally. I’m not sure we can continue being friends anymore._

So Nail is abandoning him too. Alex sighs hopelessly and flings his phone across the room, where it lands neatly on a sofa chair. He finishes eating the rest of his face-pudding and proceeds to spend the rest of the night with a silent Anna, watching episode after episode of a show that’s surprising not so much about jackets as the deceitful title makes it out to be. 

 

 

Alex’s scouts also tell him that Brendan is friends with a lot of people. 

“A lot of girls?” Alex asks one of them tensely over the phone, about a week into November.

“Yeah, man. He’s a really friendly guy and he tends to smile a lot. And he’s not bad at making other people laugh, either —”

“Are _you_ friends with him?” Alex snaps at his scout. “Nikita, am I paying you to kiss ass to NHL players and falling for Brendan’s charms?”

“You aren’t paying me at all, Alex,” Nikita says nervously, before audibly gulping.

“Then why the hell are you doing this for me, Nikita?”

“Because we’re childhood friends, Alex?”

It takes Alex a moment for him to realize that, _oh right_ , they _were_ childhood friends. He really let himself get carried away there. “Sorry, man,” Alex says. “It’s alright if you’re friends with Brendan, honestly.” 

“Alex, I play for the Tampa Bay Juniors. I don’t have time to spy on your man-crush twenty-four seven. I’ve never met Brendan Gallagher in my life. Everything I tell you comes straight from other sources.” 

It takes Alex another moment for him to realize that, _oh right_ , not everything in the universe revolves around Brendan’s social and romantic life. Also, he totally does _not_ have a man-crush on Brendan. Or a crush of any kind. 

He hangs up on Nikita with a sigh. He wonders if Therrien would mind if he suddenly disappeared one day to take a flight down to Boston, just to check up on Brendan and see how he’s doing or something. He wonders how pissed Therrien would be.

Probably very. 

Alex has a bad dream that night, compounded with twenty-two eight-foot tall faceless men, a very small and helpless Brendan Gallagher, and the ricocheting echoes of _drink! Drink! Drink!_ as a barrel of Russia’ strongest vodka is forced down the helpless Brendan’s throat until the winger sputters and drowns to death. 

 

 

November fifteenth — the day of their game against the Bruins — draws closer and closer on Alex’s calendar, and he’s never been this nervous in his _life_ before. He makes a list of potential chirps in his head, and practices them aloud to himself in front of a mirror. He also practices them to Anna’s shitzu (“Hey, remember me? The one who almost choked you to death? Yeah, look, about that. Haha, man, I got you so good! Suck it! Suck it! Suck my dick! But not in the homo way”) and practices shooting pucks for almost the entire afternoon beforehand, because he doesn’t want to embarrass himself out there in any way, least of all by his puck-handling skills.

By the time the game comes around and the guys are suiting up for their warm-up on the ice, Prusty actually has the nerve to clap Alex on the shoulder and ask him if he was going to be alright.

“Don’t lose your head out there, okay?” he says. “Don’t let Gallagher get into your head. Whatever comes our way, we deal with it. _Together_.”

Alex nods, feeling sand clogged in his throat. He pats Prusty on the back and the two actually don’t get into their usual pre-game tussle. Prusty must know how weird Alex feels. He wants so badly to defeat the Bruins. And maybe see Brendan Gallagher up close again. And maybe wipe that smug grin off his face when he lights it up behind Tuukka Rask. 

They skate onto the ice and have a scattered first period; the Bruins get their first goal in and it’s assisted by Brendan. Alex keeps his mind focused on hockey like he always does. He drives the net hard and gets a few shots on goal throughout the game, and eventually the Canadiens take control and claw their way to a 2-1 lead. 

The third period is when everything (at least, for Alex) changes. Alex miscalculates a hit and ends up with a face full of glass instead of feeling the man-on-man impact he was aiming for. He collapses on the ice with a _thud_ , covering his face with his mitts and tasting metal in his mouth. 

He doesn’t hear the whistle being blown, but it must have been because suddenly he’s surrounded. Someone pokes him with the end of their stick and then taps him on the ass with it. The ass-tap was probably meant in a consoling manner, but he doesn’t feel very consoled; he just feels embarrassed and woozy. His whole mouth is burning, too. He must have bitten off half his cheek.

Alex is already climbing to his feet before the medical staff gets to him. He just nods his head when they ask him if he’s alright and he tells them he can keep going. The respect is evident in the hockey players’ actions when they all skate away to find their positions on the ice, leaving him to wipe the blood out of his eyes.

He’s still cleaning his face when he feels a little nudge on his elbow. “What?” he grunts. 

Brendan Gallagher is smiling that stupid smile of his. 

Two feet away from him.

“What?” Alex repeats, more surprised this time. He’s absolutely _positive_ Brendan can hear his heart beating fast, even over the supportive cheers of the Habs fans. 

“You okay?” Brendan asks, mouth shifting into a tight line and sounding quite worried. 

Alex looks away. “Fine.” 

When the game is finished, Alex’s hands are sweaty and his stomach feels funny. He skates off the ice slowly and heads straight for the sinks. He completely douses his face in hot water — still dressed head-to-toe in his gear — and then looks in the mirror to check out the damage. 

There’s a cut running diagonally across his nose and he definitely bit off a large portion of his right cheek. It’s already starting to swell up. It hurts like _fuck_.

“Nice one out there,” Prusty says, coming up from behind him. “We all laughed at you when it happened.”

“Uh, no, you all stopped breathing,” says Alex, toweling himself dry. “You started wondering, what will happen to our dear Galchenyuk if he’s seriously injured? What if he dies? Who will write the eulogy? How will I keep myself from crying?” 

“Ugh, your breath smells like death,” Prusty chooses to remark instead of responding. 

“Fuck off.” 

“Gally,” another voice comes from outside the bathroom. “Get your ass over here!” 

Alex shares a look with Prusty before they head back.

Gio’s holding a slip of paper in the middle of his hand, and his hand is outstretched towards Alex. The entire locker room is dead silent, waiting with bated breath and barely-suppressed grins. Some of the guys are cackling softly to themselves like they’ve just told each other a very funny joke.

Alex ignores all of them and snatches the paper from Gio’s hands. 

It reads,

_Hey, it’s Brendan! I have something for your cheek, if you want. Text me 617-812-4961_

And then, collectively, as though they’d all fucking rehearsed it like some church choir song, the entire room goes “ _Oooooohhhh_.” 

“He gave it to me before I got off the ice,” snickers Gio, like the rude-ass captain he is. 

“Looks like Alessandro made himself a friend,” snickers Prusty, like the rude-ass friend he never was. 

Alex has never been so embarrassed in his entire life. 

He rips the paper in two and throws it into the garbage to prove a point, and that point is firmly met with a bunch of loud heckling and a steady stream of “but we wanted you to call him!” 

He doesn’t tell anyone this but later, when the room’s cleared out and everyone’s gone home or to the bar to celebrate their win, he returns to the Bell Centre and rummages through the trash. He retrieves the two halves of the paper Brendan Gallagher so preciously wrote to him on and tucks them in his jean pocket. 

 

 

 _What do you think this means?_ Alex texts Nail worriedly the next night.

 _It means he wants your dick_ , Nail responds curtly.

 _Do you think this is some cheap prank the Bruins are trying to pull on me?_ texts Alex, ignoring Nail. _I bet they wouldn’t be above this sort of thing, you know. I can totally see this number leading to a phone sex company or the Bruins’ front office or a rejection hotline._

 _It means he wants you to bend him over and fuck him with your dick_ , Nail says. 

_Do the Oilers put a cage over your mouth whenever you’re not on the ice?_

Because it’s not like Alex has thought about this. Brendan Gallagher is just another Bruin to him, obviously — another Bruin Alex wants to choke the life out of with his own two hands (while skating backwards in possession of the puck before throwing it neatly into the back of the net, just because that'd make a pretty cool goal) — but at the same time, there's no other Bruin but Brendan who'd skated up to him, voicing their concern over Alex's bad hit. A Bruin whom, when the two had last met, Alex had tried to murder in front of an all-too-supportive home crowd. 

And he’s not _really_ gay. He likes American women with their flirtatiousness and long hair and he likes Russian women with their dangling legs and alabaster cheeks. He even had a sweetheart back in Sarnia, a girl he dated for over a year before she eventually got sick of how emotionally constipated he was. 

There’s never been a guy. Alex can appreciate aesthetics as well as the next person — he knows when a man’s got a nice ass — but he’s never acted on any of these urges. Nail knows this about him. He’s probably the only one who does.

Plus. Brendan is a _Bruin._ That crime, in itself, is unforgivable — and to fraternize with a Bruin is to ask for a hell of a lot of attention and media scrutiny.

_The only cage anyone’ll be needing is Brendan Gallagher over his huuuuuge hard-on for you yoooooooooooo_

Well. Fuck it. He might as well text the number, just because any distraction would be better than Nail’s incessant badgering. 

It's just about a cheek bite, anyway. 

 

 

 _hello_.

Alex is on his stomach, in his bed, staring at his phone three feet away from him. He sent that text almost twenty minutes ago and he will not budge from this spot until that phone vibrates.

Twenty-one minutes now.

Alex rolls onto his back and counts the little bumps in his ceiling. It’s difficult because the ceiling has a lot of god motherfucking damn stupid piece of shit bumps and they’re barely visible to the naked eye. Alex seriously considers ordering a microscope right the fuck now on eBay so he can see the pattern the bumps make on his ceiling. Whose genius idea was it to design bumps no one can see? 

“The winters of my childhood were long, long seasons,” Alex begins muttering under his breath. His dad told him once to recite comforting phrases whenever he was nervous or had to pass the time or had to fall asleep before a big game. _The Hockey Sweater_ wasn’t exactly a book he grew up on, but Alex never reads and he doesn’t know any other stories off the top of his head, so. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to remember the next line. “We lived in three places — the fucking school, the fucking church, and the fucking skating rink — but our real life was on skating rink. Fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck am I doing.” 

He spins himself back over and is ready to break his phone over his knee when it _vibrates._

Alex grabs it — sending it spinning through the air — and then awkwardly tries catching it only for it to fall down his shirt. He spends a few desperate seconds trying to untangle himself from his sweater and his arms and fuck — where was the fucking thing — when the phone finally dislodges itself and goes clattering across the floor.

Alex picks it up and unlocks it, breathless. 

The little chat bubble on his screen makes his breath hitch. 

_hi! :)_


	2. Chapter 2

Now what?

Alex doesn’t want to ask Nail what to do because Nail just sent him eight texts concerning whether Brendan would like dicks as hairy or ugly as Alex’s and the Canadien is absolutely not in the mood for responding to any of them. 

_Scout_ , he texts Nikita instead, because obviously Nikita (being only a minor league hockey player) understands social protocol better than anyone else in the NHL. _What’s the custom for ‘amount of time to wait in between texts’?_

_Depends, Boss_ , Nikita immediately answers back, unlike some people (Brendan) who have to take all of twenty-three minutes to respond. _Who gave their number? Who texted first? Is it someone you already know, or is this your first time talking to each other? Is it your mother, your team coach, or your sister’s shitzu who just learned how tO WORK A PHONE OH my Gosh CALL an animal talent agency immeDIATely!!_

Sometimes Alex wonders why he chooses to be friends with these people. 

_It’s Brendan Gallagher. Who else do I even talk about nowadays?_

_True that._

_Anyway, he gave me his number, I texted ‘hello’, then he texted me ‘hi’ like six hours later_. Alex wonders if six hours is too much of an exaggeration. It probably is. He changes it to ‘eight hours later’. 

_Boss, I’m going to be honest with you here, I have no fucking clue. Because Brendan Gallagher is neither your mother, your team coach, or your sister’s shitzu. I have no idea who he is to you. If I could guess, my closest wager would be on “guy-I-can-not-stop-thinking-about-and-love-of-my-life-and-light-of-my-soul”. Boss, all rules are off when it comes to light-of-my-souls. There’s never a simple answer to them. Just be prepared to have your heart slowly, meticulously, and thoroughly clawed out of your chest in case anything goes wrong. Good luck!_

Alex rolls his eyes and opens his conversation with Nail, but then he sees four renditions of phallic pictures made from emoticons and the number eight. He closes the conversation.

Does he have a crush on Brendan Gallagher? 

Probably not. That’s disgusting. Whenever he tries picturing Brendan’s face, his mind only conjures the pre-pubescent version of him that Alex showed Anna. Alex knows what it feels like to have a crush, and this doesn’t feel anything like it. 

It’s more of a…morbid fascination with a bright-eyed, kind-hearted guy who plays for the NHL’s nastiest team. 

Yeah, that’s it. 

Alex steels himself like he’s in game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals (not that he’s ever played in one. Fuck the Senators) and is in position to block Zdeno Chara’s slapshot from up close. He’ll have to face this one alone. “At ease, soldiers,” he mutters. “Your captain will take this one for the team.” 

_This is Alex Galchenyuk_ , Alex Galchenyuk types. He’s very careful to watch for spelling errors. It’s easier in Russian when he has the Cyrillic keyboard and auto correct, but he’s a lot less sure of his grammar when it comes to English and Bruins and smiley human incarnations of little puppies. 

This time, Brendan’s reply is instantaneous. 

_i k :) ok, so Ive never actually bitten my cheek b4, but I did get scratches from my mouth guard when it got knocked around after a bad hit_

_I wan’t wearing my mouth guard_ , Alex sends after a whole lot of contemplation, before catching the spelling error. 

‘I wan’t’. What the fuck was that? Fuck, fuck! Fucking fuck! He steadies himself and tries sending another text, this time more slowly. _Makes it hard to breathe._

If Brendan notices the spelling mistake, he doesn’t judge him. Or, rather, if Brendan judges him, he doesn’t tell Alex. Or, rather, Brendan notices the spelling mistake, but just doesn’t give a shit. _u weren’t wearing ur mouth guard?? wat r u an idiot??_

_That’s actually my middle name_ , Alex jokes. Totally lame, but the Bruin seems like the kind of guy who’d laugh at anything. Not that Alex would know. He’s never had a proper conversation with the guy, for Chrissake, until now. 

_mine is the most canadian name any1 cud ever hav. its ‘adam mathew’ can u believe it brendan adam mathew gallagher??LOL_

Actually, Alex can, because that pre-pubescent picture of Brendan is popping up in his head again, and it isn’t difficult for Alex to believe that the owner of such a face is called ‘Brendan Adam Matthew’. 

_Haha I don’t think that can beat how in Russian my name is Sasha_

_i thot u were belarusian?_

How on earth does Brendan know that? For a crazy moment Alex thinks that maybe Brendan is as obsessed with Alex as Alex is with Brendan. He shoots this thought down immediately and is about to respond with _I’m actually American, but I speak Russian_ until another text quickly comes: 

_sorry hhaha i’m reading ur wiki page i tend 2 do that w/NHL players ive just met!! don’t want 2 be creepy lool_

Brendan doesn’t know creepy. Creepy is the notebook Alex carries around with him sometimes, filled with cut-outs of articles about the Bruins and about Brendan (alright, so, he admits that he kind of stalks Brendan like the next Jesus. So sue him). 

_You don’t know creepy. I once knew a guy in Juniors who stalked this girl he barely knew and kept a diary of everything she did._

_wow that rlly is creepy did she file charges??_

Alex sweatdrops because he has no fucking clue, she doesn’t exist. _No_ , he responds carefully. _Actually, the stalker didn’t even know he was doing it until the last minute. He apologized and redeemed himself through good deeds and good looks and they became friends._

_i’m like tht 2. i forgive ppl easily and tend 2 trust strangers more than i shud_

That makes Alex laugh out loud, for no reason at all. Brendan Adam Mathew Gallagher is just so _damn_ funny. He quickly stifles his laughter and looks out his room to see if Anna heard him. She’s in her own room across the hall, so he’s safe, and he closes his door again. 

_Is that why you gave me your number?_

He has a feeling that maybe he shouldn’t have said that because it might make things too weird. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, and never question the Bruin that gives you his phone number first. But Brendan doesn’t seem to mind, because he sends the text: 

_we’re not strangers r we chucky?? i mean u had ur arm round my neck LOL_

What the fuck is Chucky, Alex thinks. _Yeah. Sorry about that, by the way. It was just in the heat of the moment and now I know not all Bruins are classless. Sorry for calling you a dirty prick, too._

_i forgive u!_

And suddenly, Alex smiles. Because Brendan’s so kind and considerate and gives his numbers out to players on rival teams to make sure they’re okay. Because Brendan forgives Alex’s hatred of the Bruins with exclamation marks and careless typos. Because he used to know this guy, Brendan, the Bruin pest, but now he’s starting to know this guy, Brendan, fantastic human being and probably God’s gift to mankind. 

It’s easy talking to Brendan, even through Alex’s awkwardness. At least Brendan’s messages aren’t filled with a barrage of sex jokes like Nail’s messages are, and at least he isn’t spying for Alex’s undercover missions like Nikita is (all for a good cause, of course). They go back and forth for a good while — talking about whatever comes next in their minds, like Breaking Bad or old soap or what it was like living all over the place like Alex did. 

_want 2 talk over the phone? my fingers hurt_

Alex looks at the time and sees that it’s already fucking ass-o-clock in the morning. No wonder Brendan took so long answering his first text — he was probably sleeping.

_Isn’t it late over there? Are you guys back in Boston yet?_

_ya we r we got back last night and we have a day off tomorrow and i already slept so i want 2 talk 2 u_

Alex feels so flattered in that moment that he’s actually scrambling to dial Brendan’s number. He doesn’t know if anyone else in the house is awake, though, so he crawls under his bed and covers his head with a blanket in order to muffle his voice.

“Hey,” he says quietly, as soon as he hears someone pick up on the other line.

“Hey, Chucky,” comes a cheerful voice.

“What the fuck is Chucky?” Alex asks.

Pause. “Your nickname? Isn’t it? Because it _should_ be. It’s cool, it reminds me of the doll.”

Alex laughs. “My nickname is Gally.”

“Mine is, too. That’s why we’re changing yours. If we’re gonna be friends, we can’t _both_ be Gally.”

Alex figures that that’s reasonable, but he can’t resist teasing Brendan more, even if the Canadien’s reserved as hell talking to people off the ice. “Why don’t you change _your nickname_ , then?”

“I have seniority,” Brendan insists. “I’m older than you are. If we were on the same team you’d have to open doors for me and stuff.”

Alex thinks about it and realizes he would _gladly_ open doors for Brendan and stuff, especially with the shitty way he’s treated the Bruin and with the way the Bruin responded in turn. 

The two move on to different topics of conversation. Alex realizes that they’re able to find things to talk about even if they don’t share the same taste in music or shows. It suddenly becomes not-awkward at all — even less so on the phone than while texting. On the phone, Alex knows when he’s made a good joke, because he’ll hear Brendan’s honest and warm laughter on the other end. Meanwhile, Brendan’s even funnier in real life than he is over text, and Alex is constantly either full-out laughing or recovering from a bout of laughter or chuckling lightly.

Before he knows it, the sun is coming up and Alex thinks _Fuck, I promised I’d meet some of the guys at the gym for a morning work out_. He relays this thought to Brendan, who says that he should probably get some shuteye anyway.

“Noo,” Alex protests jokingly. “I feel like we’re never going to get a chance to talk again until our next game.”

Alex hears a rustling of paper on Brendan’s side. “Says here that that’s when the Canadiens come to Boston…” and more rustling… “January 30th.”

More than two months from now.

Alex’s heart falls. He has no clue why, but his heart fucking falls and suddenly he’s miserable as fuck. _Nikita was right_ , he tells himself. _Here’s the moment my heart bursts out of my body and I die a slow painful death._

He tries not to let his misery show in his voice the next time he speaks up, though, because that’d just be pathetic. “Okay. Tell your Bruins to be prepared, because we’re going to _bring_ it. What you saw last night? That, that was nothing.”

“Yeah? Well, I wouldn’t get too cocky if I were you. You didn’t even register a point.”

“Fuck off,” Alex grunts. “I’ll — I’ll see you, alright?” 

He can practically hear Brendan’s smile. “See you. But wait,” he says, just as Alex is about to hang up. “We’ll still talk, right? I mean, before January 30th. Because that’s like. _So_ far away.” 

That miserable feeling in Alex’s throat suddenly vanishes in an instant. “Of course,” he says eagerly. 

“I’ll call you?” 

“Yeah, sure!”

“And — and after the game — if you’re not busy or anything — want to catch a late movie together?”

“Together?” Alex repeats stupidly. “Like, together together.”

“Movies, together together,” Brendan affirms, and Alex doesn’t know what the hell that means, but he does know he’s almost giddy to find out.

“Okay,” he says, trying to hold back his excitement. “Sure thing.” 

“Bye, Alex Galchenyuk!” 

“B-bye, Brendan!”

And that was that.

Alex stares at his phone after the line disconnects and stares at it for a long time. He finally wriggles out from underneath his bed and clambers on top of it. He’s actually dead tired. He texts Patches _Can’t make it, please tell everyone else, sorry! Don’t worry nothing happened_ before promptly dropping his phone to the ground and trying to catch some sleep. 

It doesn’t come to him for a long time. Realization comes first. 

He doesn’t have a fucking crush on Brendan Gallagher.

But he wants to hold Brendan Gallagher’s hand. And maybe go completely insane for the familiarity of something that hasn’t even happened yet. 

Because that’s what Brendan Gallagher is to him — familiar and comforting, with a smile that can light up the whole world and blind the sun. 

Damn short people to hell.

 

 

Nail’s the first one who finds out about ‘movies, together together’. And Alex kind of regrets telling him.

“You already spend so much time talking about him,” Nail complains over the phone. “If you date him, you’ll _definitely_ have no time left for me. Even when you _do_ find time, it’s always _Brendan this Brendan that_. Just suck his dick already.”

“I don’t know if it’s a date,” Alex frets. “You’re only bringing this up now because you don’t know what you have till it’s gone and you’re worried you’ll end up lonely and friendless without me.” 

“Well…yeah. I mean, what? Fuck you! I have so many friends. I have like fifty thousand Twitter followers.” 

“ _I have so many friends_ ,” Alex mimics him in a high-pitched voice that sounds nothing like Nail. “ _I have like fifty thousand Twitter followers._ ”

“God, you’re so immature,” Nail says, before hanging up. 

Later, Alex posts _I have so many friends. I have like fifty thousand Twitter followers. - Nail Yakupov_ to his own twitter and it gets a thousand retweets.

While he’s at it, he casually follows Brendan Gallagher’s Twitter account and hopes no one notices. 

 

 

Anna’s the second one to find out about ‘movies, together together’. 

The first reason she finds out is because Brendan calls Alex again later that week, and she lives with Alex, and the walls are paper thin, so duh she accidentally-on-purpose listens in on their conversation when she’s up late one night. 

Second, she finds out because she’s a nosy-ass sister who justifies all her actions by stating that they’re ‘for Alex’s own good’ — so when she overhears the conversation, she immediately calls Nail to ask him about it. 

Third, Nail is a traitor, a horrible friend, and an even worse secret-keeper with a massive hard-on for her. He’d probably fly all the way to Montreal from Edmonton if Anna told him she was in the mood for Starbucks. That motherfucker. 

“You motherfucker,” Alex tells Nail when Anna puts him on speaker phone after she clued Alex in on the fact that she _knows_. 

“What did you want me to do?” Nail cries sorrowfully, probably in a fake attempt to garner sympathy from Alex. Alex isn’t fooled. “She had me in chains and blindfolds and there were _whips_ involved! Not to say I wouldn’t enjoy it if that actually happened, Anna, sweetheart —”

“Okay, you need to stop talking,” Anna says at the same time Alex moans “please for the love of God shut up”. 

“For real, though, Alex. You know I love you, man. Maybe even a little homo. I just wanted you to regret that Twitter post you made about me. Feel that regret burn deep in your soul.” 

Alex makes a noncommittal face at Anna and shrugs his shoulders like he’s trying to convince her that he doesn’t know why he talks to Nail, either. Anna snorts.

“Alex, this intervention isn’t to punish you,” she tells him softly. “I just don’t think you understand what you’re doing. You could go for anyone, but a player on the Bruins? Really? Hello? Sometimes I don’t understand what’s going on in that head of yours and I worry for you.”

“Anna, I’m going to save you a lot of time and trouble,” Nail chirps from where the phone is sitting, unwanted, on the coffee table. “There is absolutely _nothing_ going on in Alex’s head at all times.”

“For Chrissake, it’s not like the universe has been flipped over!” Alex snaps. “Why can’t you just be happy that I’m making friends outside my circle? Who cares if he plays for the Bruins? It’s not a big deal.” 

“Ah, the true sign of a fellow in love — the three D’s. Denial, dates, and dicks,” Nail says.

Alex promptly grabs the phone and hits the call button to take Nail off speaker. 

“It’s not a date, Anna,” Alex says softly to her. “It’s not anything at all. There’s nothing wrong with being friends with a Bruin — Subban and Marchy are really close in the off-season, you know. You just gotta fucking trust me on this one.”

Anna is silent, because Alex _never_ swears and uses her name in the same breath with that tone of voice. 

The silence is broken when Nail, who was of course still listening, says very loudly, “Boy, you’re really fucking gone for him, aren’t you?” 

Alex doesn’t know what he means by that. 

 

 

The two months drag on with unhurried indifference. It’s like no god in the universe cares about Alex and Brendan’s meeting and no god is willing to speed up the time for them, even a little bit. If Alex isn’t playing hockey or having one of his sparse, small-talk conversations with Brendan over Skype, then he’s moping around the house begging the hours to pass by more quickly. He frets whenever he has time to think about Brendan, and frets whenever he doesn’t. Talking to Brendan is the _best_ , but Alex can’t wait for the day when they get to meet for real.

They’re stretching on the ice one day and Prusty tells him suddenly, “Stop.”

Alex looks over at him, confused. “Stop what?” 

“You’re projecting onto me. I can literally _feel_ Brendan Gallager vibes emanating from your fucking soul.”

“…You’re an idiot.”

Prusty grins. “Maybe, but at least I’m not an idiot who spends half my time obsessing over the dictionary definition of the word ‘date’.”

“Do you think it’s a date?” Alex agonizes as he turns to Prusty with hopeful eyes. “I told Anna and Nail it isn’t one, but — well, Brendan and I have gotten really close lately. But Brendan might not be interested in me like — like that.”

Prusty snorts. “It’s a date, dude. Two guys going to a late movie together? _Alone?_ With the specific confirmation of the words _‘Together, together’_ by one of the partners? It’s totally a date.”

“Are you being sarcastic? Because I don’t appreciate it.”

Prusty exhales noisily. “Jesus Christ, Gally, no, I’m not being sarcastic. Stretch your damn leg.”

Alex stretches his damn leg. 

 

 

Small-talk with Brendan sometimes constitutes sharing embarrassing grade school secrets. They talk on the phone about once every week, and these days are the best of Alex’s life. His heart still jumps whenever he hears his Brendan-specific ringtone (set affectionately to _Spice Girls — Wannabe_ ) ring and he’ll still overturn the entire house in his haste to answer his phone whenever Brendan calls. Nothing changes about that in the weeks that go by. 

“I once had a wet dream about my mom before,” Alex admits to Brendan once when they’re trading weird stories that’ve happened to them.

“You’re _disgusting_ , Alex!” calls Anna from across the hall, and Alex turns scarlet and slams his door shut.

“Sorry, my sister,” he mutters. 

Brendan sniggers. “I once…hmm. I once chased a girl into the girl’s bathroom during grade school because I thought she had internal bleeding and needed to be brought to the hospital. There was blood soaking through her pants.” He pauses. “Turns out she was on her period and I embarrassed her in front of the whole class.”

“I once cellied too hard after a goal and flipped over on my back. And then it turns out it wasn’t even a real goal because I brushed the puck with my glove before it went in.”

The two dissolve into rapturous laughter that’s all too inappropriate for grown hockey men — high-pitched, breathy noises, while clutching their stomachs till their sides ached. They’re children when they talk to each other and Alex loves every moment of it. The more days pass, the closer the two become, and the more Alex wishes he and Brendan weren’t so damn far away from each other. 

He also curses the fact that Brendan’s a Bruin — if he’d been a Hab, they’d see each other every day and Alex wouldn’t have to think twice about this shit. They’d probably even room together on the road. They’d keep each other up late with scary stories. They’d borrow each other’s clothes and play pranks on each other and Alex wouldn’t have to go for weeks feeling like there’s a hole in his chest. Or, you know. Something less girly. 

But no matter how hard Alex dreams, nothing changes about the fact that Brendan lives a five-hour driving distance from him. The Saint Lawrence River doesn’t get any less wide with the thoughts that keep Alex from sleep. The blinking, crowded nightlife of Montreal doesn’t stop making Alex wonder if it resembles Boston, or whether or not Brendan stares blankly at the night sky as much as he does. Massachusetts never stops being so far away. 

Because something’s been clicking with Brendan. Alex didn’t know it before — not when he first met the pest, not when he’d locked him in a choke hold, and not when he used to spend hours filling his notebook with little details about the way Brendan dresses or walks or the funny tics in his voice. Nothing really clicked until he heard Brendan’s voice on the phone and Brendan became a real person to him instead of an imagined rival Alex believed himself to hate.

Alex can’t even remember the days anymore when Brendan didn’t take up so much time and space in his life — the days when Brendan didn’t exist to him and wasn’t the realest person Alex knows. 

One time, they’re on the phone when Alex is trying to put dinner together. Anna and his mom had left him for grander ambitions, like the Chinese restaurant down the street. Alex, meanwhile, is on a diet. Such is the life of a hockey player — to have a family that doesn’t give a crap about eating out without him. 

“I have something to admit to you,” Brendan says.

“Alright,” Alex responds while trying to flip an egg. “Shoot.”

“I’m actually a huge fan of the Oilers. I know, I’m a disgrace to the Bruins organization. They were the team I grew up watching.” 

Alex sputters and almost drops the egg. “The current Oilers?”

“Well, they’re alright, too.”

“You know Nail Yakupov?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s one of my best friends. We were on the same OHL team for a couple years. We totally dominated.”

“I guess I can see how you guys are friends, since you’re both Russian. I have some pretty unlikely friendships around the league, too.”

“Like me?” Alex asks, carefully maneuvering the egg onto a plate. He looks at it wistfully and wishes he knew how to make anything else besides that and protein shakes. “And I’m not Russian. I’m American.”

Brendan ignores the last bit and says, “Yeah, totally like you. We’re like, fucking star-crossed, or something. I know some Bruins and Habs who are pretty chill with each other in the off-season, but then again, no Hab has ever tried choking any of us to death before.”

Alex smiles faintly. “Are you on that again?” It’s become a recurring joke between the two of them. 

“I still have bruises, man!” 

Alex heads out to his balcony with his food and leans over the railings. Brossard’s night life doesn’t have quite the same buzz to it as Montreal’s does, but it still captures a sort of quiet magic all the same, especially when he’s on the phone with Brendan and the phone is cradled close to his ear and Brendan is cooing to his dog into the mic. 

“Game soon,” Brendan says to him pleasantly, like Alex hasn’t known for the past two months. 

“Yeah. Movie soon, too,” Alex says, just in case the Bruin forgot.

There’s no hesitation in Brendan’s voice when he responds. “If I’m honest with you, I gotta say, the movie excites me more than the game with a division rival.”

“Don’t let the Bruins know that,” Alex jokes.

“They already do,” Brendan says shortly. “They don’t really care. Can you believe they’re even a little happy for me? Sometimes there’s more to life outside of hockey, you know? I mean, I guess _you_ count as hockey too. It’s just that we never see each other, so it’s easy to pretend you’re not part of _that_ part of my life. The professional one. The one where I get super competitive over small things and such.”

Alex searches for words but comes up short.

“I’m happy our teams’ rivalry doesn’t stop us from being friends, Chucky,” Brendan tells him. 

Alex gazes out at his neighbourhood and listens to the cicadas sing and clutches his phone so hard that he’s afraid he might crack the screen. “Me too,” he says tightly.

It’s the closest thing to a confession Alex has ever given. 

 

 

The road to Boston is a long one and Alex falls asleep on the bus. When he wakes up, it’s to a lap full of notes from guys who are asshats and who _still_ find Alex’s ‘movies, together together’ with Brendan insanely funny. Some of the notes read _Good luck out there today go get yourself laid_ from well-meaning teammates and others are just plain full of dick jokes, including one with an actual poorly-drawn picture. It’s like being surrounded by twenty Nail Yakupovs, all the damn time.

“Fuck you all,” Alex swears loudly before brushing the papers to the ground. The guys, who’d been waiting for him to wake up, laugh like the obnoxious fuckers they all are.

Prusty tells him seriously, “But we mean it, Alessandro,” he says. “We’re actually all rooting for you and shit. We want you to be happy.” 

Alex knows. He’s always known this about the team. They’re family, after all.

In what seems like the ending of an old era, Alex steps off the bus when they’ve stopped and stretches his arms above his head and yawns loudly, because Brendan is so close that Boston already feels a little like home, even if Montreal and Sarnia and Russia are all a million miles away. 

 

 

The puck drop is all at once gratifying and terrifying. 

Alex waits impatiently on the sidelines for his turn to play. His line doesn’t get out there for what seems like _hours_ , but as soon as Therrien tells him to haul ass, he basically falls onto the ice in his hurry and searches desperately for Brendan’s number.

Brendan’s not there. He’s on the bench.

Alex swears and tries to focus on getting pucks to the net and not gliding over to Brendan Gallagher to give him a huge-ass hug (at the risk of angering Therrien and also at the risk of going near the scary-looking Bruins). Because they’re so, _so_ close now — just a single sheet of ice away — and Alex can hardly focus on the stick in his hands for the thoughts whirring at the back of his mind. 

_Brendan, Brendan, Brendan._

Their lines don’t cross paths until the late half of the first period, which means Alex is basically skating in pure agony by that point. Seriously, his legs keep shaking and that’s making it hella hard for him to concentrate. His teeth would probably be chattering, too, if it wasn’t for his mouthguard (something Brendan insisted he wear, and who was Alex to deny Brendan anything?). 

When they come together for a face-off, it’s the closest Alex has gotten to Brendan all night. He can’t take his eyes off Brendan and Brendan can’t take his eyes off him and then they’re skating towards each other and getting _closer_ and _closer_ and Alex is counting down the distance between them — five feet, four feet, three feet. 

Brendan Gallagher is right there. Right fucking there. Two months of accumulating friendship and desire and suddenly it’s like a dream coming to life because Brendan’s looking straight at him with his tongue between his teeth and Alex has never wanted anyone so badly before now. 

Two feet, one foot, and nothing at all. 

They cross their sticks, shoulders gently brushing, and Alex can _swear_ he hears both the Habs’ and Bruins’ jeering laughter. He doesn’t think he’s ever blushed so hard in his entire life. Brendan smiles at him, his face just inches away, and Alex’s poor heart flutters.

“Hey,” Brendan says softly.

“Hey,” Alex replies, barely whispering, before the puck is dropped and the moment is whisked away. 

After that face-off, Alex can’t help but be drawn towards Brendan, searching for his number on the ice or on the bench or wherever he goes. He skates in a sort of haze, mind tipsy like he’s been drinking, eyes fuzzy on the ice in distraction. He doesn’t even notice how aggressive the plays by the other players become as the game progresses — and he must be more distracted by the Bruin than he thought because once the second period starts, both teams are taking a crap load of penalties and Alex doesn’t even know where half of them are coming from. 

“Why are they so pissed off?” he asks, leaning over to P.K.

“Uh,” P.K. says, eyes mostly on the game in front of them. “I’m guessing it’s because we’re winning? Also, it’s the Bruins, come on, what did you expect?” 

Alex hasn’t really expected anything. Sure, he’d hated the Bruins after that first preseason game, but he only hated them because everyone else in Montreal seemed to. But then he’d started to talk to Brendan, and Brendan yammered on about his team all the time — and from what he’s learned, the guys there aren’t half-bad. 

Alex jumps when he hears PK swear angrily at the sight of Marchand and Desharnais being escorted to the penalty box, even though Alex thought both kind of deserved it. 

“Get your head in the game, Galls,” PK tells him with one leg over the boards, ready to hop on the ice. “I know we gave you shit over the whole Brendan Gallagher thing, and that was real funny at first, but you need to start playing like you mean it, alright? Fun’s over.” 

Alex nods, stunned. PK is right. Alex has been so caught up in Brendan that he’s been neglecting his play. 

When he gets on the ice again, he lets his competitive nature take over. It’s not that hard. He gets more physical — checking players when he probably doesn’t have to, shoving dudes more roughly than he usually would, and aggressively stealing pucks away and skating faster than he’s ever done so before. 

If there was ever a good opportunity for Alex to show off to Brendan, this is it.

But apparently Brendan doesn’t think so, not when Alex helps score a goal and bring Montreal up to a 4-1 lead, ending the second period.

The Bruin skates up to Alex right as Alex is about to get off the ice. The Canadien is grinning, but stops when he sees how angry Brendan looks.

“You’re a real asshole on the ice, you know that?” Brendan snaps at him when they skate by each other. Alex almost does a double take, because Brendan looks so pissed off and Brendan _almost never_ looks pissed off. 

They’re about to get off the ice for intermission but Alex can’t help grabbing Brendan’s jersey and pulling him back. “Excuse me?” he says, over the loud boos of the Bruins fans. His heart is acting up again and doing all these weird backflips and Alex is just so worried that Brendan might _actually be mad_ at him. 

“Yeah,” Brendan spits, before pushing Alex. Alex wavers and almost falls over — which would have been embarrassing as hell, given the height difference between them. “You once called _me_ a dirty prick, but now that I’ve seen _you_ play —” 

Brendan’s face is a little red, which means he’s taking this more seriously than Alex thought. Alex knows what it’s like to be super competitive and to be on the losing end of a bad game, so he tries grabbing Brendan again. “Look,” he says desperately, not wanting Brendan to go. “I don’t know what you saw out there, but just because you’re losing —”

“Fuck you,” Brendan snarls, twisting away. 

“Why the hell are you so mad?” Alex yells, frustrated. 

There are a couple Bruins gliding over to them to see what all the fuss is about. “What’s the problem here?” one of the vets asks, and though the Bruin only has a couple inches over Alex, he still makes the Canadien feel small as hell.

“None of your business,” Alex snaps. “I’m trying to talk to my friend.” 

Brendan spins on him with a wild look in his eyes and pushes Alex again. The Bruin vet — Thornton — moves his way in between Brendan and Alex and stares the Canadien down. “It actually is my business,” he growls. “I know what kind of _friend_ he is to you, but whatever you might think is between you, it doesn’t exist here on the ice.” 

The jeering in the crowd grows louder. 

It’s the jeering that really stirs something inside Alex, all upset that Brendan’s treating him like this when he’s done _nothing_ , and all pissed off at this random fucking enforcer sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. Brendan is _Alex’s_ friend, Brendan is _Alex’s_ , Brendan’s not just another dirty fucking Bruin — 

— so he gives Thornton a shove. “Fuck off!” he shouts over the booing, before trying to get to Brendan again. “Just let me talk to Brendan alone!” 

Something twists in Brendan’s face, all red and furious, and suddenly his gloves are flying off and Brendan Adam Mathew Gallagher’s hands are buried in Alex’s jersey. Alex’s own gloves come off without a second thought, but he makes a wild swing before Brendan’s prepared for it and his fist collides straight in the Bruin’s eye. 

Brendan lets Alex go with a yelp. 

It’d be comically hilarious if Alex didn’t feel _so horrible_ about it and didn’t want to scoop Brendan up in his arms and sob a million apologies to him a million times over. It’d also be comically hilarious if Alex didn’t suddenly feel a blow to the side of his head right after he witnesses Brendan stumble.

He staggers and yells — he isn’t sure _what_ he yells, but it’s something angry about the dirty punch — and he throws a crazy hit at whoever was behind him. 

Before he knows it he’s surrounded by a barrage of red-blue-white that’s _finally_ decided to show up, and the gold-blacks rise to meet the challenge. Alex yells “I thought we were fucking _friends!_ ” to Brendan’s receding figure before he’s blocked by another Bruin and then more gloves are coming off and Alex is feeling a small trickle of warm blood pool thickly over his tongue and Alex has one eye shut and landing blow after blow after blow on whoever’s in his way in his attempt to get to Brendan. 

When the refs finally pull the scrum apart, all Alex has eyes for is _Brendan, Brendan, Brendan_ , being led off the ice by another Bruin. 

Brendan’s eye is completely swollen shut and his face looks totally wrecked, all purples and blacks. “Hey,” Alex calls after them, ignoring the ref holding him back. He pries the ref’s hands off him, stumbling and tripping over his own two feet and the ice, before yelling again, “ _Hey!_ ”

Brendan glances back but says nothing. There’s a hard look in his good eye and his mouth has set into a firm line and there’s traces of blood on his chin. 

“Don’t touch him,” the other Bruin warns when Alex has skated up to them.

Alex ignores him, only focusing on his friend. “Are you okay?” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth, his hand reaching for Brendan’s face. 

“I said, don’t touch him,” the other Bruin snaps, grabbing Alex’s wrist. 

Alex twists out of the grip, but it doesn’t matter, because Brendan doesn’t want to see him, and Brendan is skating away. “Bren,” Alex calls out. “Are you okay? Brendan?” 

But Alex has been such a fucking idiot, because he’s been playing domestic with Brendan this whole time, and Alex told Anna and himself that he can handle it, that he’s an adult, that nothing’s going to go wrong. That Brendan’s _different_.

The two teams diverge, both to their respective locker rooms, backs to each other. Alex doesn’t budge from his spot until he feels PK’s hands on his back, warm and guiding. 

The Bruins are gone, along with _Brendan, Brendan, Brendan_. 

 

 

Brendan Gallagher doesn’t come back for the third period. Neither teams score again, so Montreal wins the game.


	3. Chapter 3

The next few weeks pass in a blur.

Alex continues to play his hockey. It’s what he was born to do. He knows the game intrinsically – every push on the ice with his skate blades, every flick of his stick, every read of the goaltender.

Alex doesn’t know Brendan Gallagher. 

He sometimes finds himself sitting alone, miserably, in the corner of the locker room with his phone dangling loosely in one hand. Subby and Larry come by sometimes to tousle his hair, and the other guys mutter apologies and consoling words before they leave him to his own devices. This means that more often than not, Alex has time to count the bumps in the ceiling and where he went wrong. 

“It’s just the Bruins,” Prusty tries one time in an attempt to pull him out of his slump. “It’s just the game they play. Don’t think about it too much.”

But surely the Canadiens have forgotten by now about _movies, together together_ , and the way Alex used to rush home after Sunday practices so he could wait for Brendan’s call. In the end, Alex and his weird crush on the Bruin shorty was nothing more than a running joke to them, just another batch of teasing remarks amongst other teasing remarks to drop when getting dressed. They can’t understand why Alex drives the net less aggressively now, or lowers his hands to his sides when being pushed around by the other team. They can’t understand why Alex cared so much about that Bruins game, like it was some pinnacle, deciding moment in his life, like it was the thing he’d been looking forward to for months. 

For them, it was just another rivalry. It was just another hockey game; some of the vets have suited up for hundreds of those. It was the way business rolled – fights break out, inseparable line mates get split up, the Cup doesn’t get won, and horrible losses are suffered for several games in a row even after the best efforts are made. Sometimes things aren’t fair. 

But the team doesn’t know Brendan Gallagher.

Alex eventually calls Nikita, who doesn’t pick up. Alex leaves a message — at first, he considers saying, _Scout, what’s the protocol for when the guy you really like is on a rival team, and he’s angry at you for beating him_ , but instead he really only just says, _Scout, what’s the protocol for when the guy you really like is on a rival team_. 

After that, Alex doesn’t use his phone anymore. And when Anna takes a few weeks off to go on vacation, Alex doesn’t talk anymore, either. 

Obviously, Therrien notices how few points Alex is putting up for eight straight games in a row. It happens sometimes, even to the highest of draft picks, even to the star forwards. Therrien doesn’t question it. 

“We have a lot of faith in Alex Galchenyuk,” he responds firmly to the microphones shoved in his face. “This is only his second season, coming out of a shortened one. There’s still a lot of potential left to be fulfilled. Everyone has their bad days – or bad weeks.” 

It’s always nice, of course, to have your coach talk about you like that behind your back. Alex appreciates it.

But never once does Therrien ask him about Brendan. 

It’s only when Alex misses Brendan’s presence in his life does he realize how much he needs the Bruin. Alex needs Brendan like he needs Nail’s annoying jokes or Anna’s smothering motherliness or Nikita’s mild interest in his affairs or Prusty’s sharp chirps. These are the things that remind him that all is right in the world. He can be Brendan’s friend in any way the Bruin needs a friend, even if Brendan may not return the same affectionate sentiments. 

He just wants Brendan.

Nikita eventually calls Alex back, and this time Alex picks up. “Hey boss,” he says softly. 

“Hey Scout,” Alex replies.

“I heard about what happened. It sucks.”

“Tell me about it.” 

“What’ve you been up to lately?” 

Alex pauses and has to really think in order to answer this one. “Nothing much,” he answers neutrally. “Yesterday I spotted this mosquito outside my window.”

“That’s…nice, I guess. Anyway, I’ve made contact with this fantastic trainer, and I’m gonna be in Montreal during the Olympic break. I was just wondering if you wanted to meet up for the first time in, like, forever.” 

Alex sits up. Obviously he wants to see Nikita. Being cut from the American hockey men’s roster still stung a little, but Alex doesn’t mind; he’s planning on using this time off to train some more and watch great sports. 

“We could make fun of bad British hockey commentators,” Alex says. “Do you have anywhere to stay? Stay here.” 

“Well – okay, sure. I’m flying over on the 12th, so pick me up at the airport?” 

“I’ll be there.” 

This is great, because lately, Alex just really needs a friend to dick around and play PS3 games with. Alex thinks about this as Sochi draws closer and closer. He finally breaks his scoring slump with a goal and an assist right before half the Habs are sent off to Russia, leaving Alex feeling slightly nostalgic for home and his grandparents. 

He putters around the house while waiting to leave for the airport to pick up Nikita. He cooks two eggs instead of one for lunch and remembers to pick his socks up from the floor and tries to feel proud of himself for these little things. He hides the Brendan Adam Mathew Gallagher notebook (or BAMG, as he’d affectionately called it before) under his mattress and peels the Bruins sticker off the back of his laptop and otherwise eradicates any trace of yellow from his room.

Apparently, though, he’d forgotten to take down the most obvious piece – the Boston Bruins poster in one corner of his room, amidst all the red-blue-white. In other words, a giant-ass sign that basically says LOOK AT ME, I’M A HUGE PIECE OF DISLOYAL SHIT.

As soon as Nikita sees the poster hanging across from Alex’s bed, his eyebrows shoot right up to his hairline. 

“Uh,” he says blankly. 

“What?” challenges Alex, who’d only just spotted it as well. 

“I didn’t say anything,” Nikita says quickly. 

“I love having Zdeno Chara’s face be the last thing I see every time I fall asleep,” Alex says. 

“…I know, Gall – Alex.” 

“Remember that one time I called to tell you about how Zdeno Chara smashed my head against the goal post, and I was so psyched about it because it was _such_ a great hit?”

“I definitely remember.”

“I’m a big fan of the Bruins,” Alex says tonelessly, before he rips Nikita’s suitcase out of his hands. “Follow me to the guest room immediately.”

Thankfully, Mrs. Galchenyuk isn’t home right now, and Anna is still travelling, leaving Alex with plenty of freedom to get Nikita acquainted with their Brossard home. 

“Before we do that,” Nikita says, and a grin splits his face. “I have a surprise for you. There’s someone outside.” 

Alex blinks, before turning to see that – yes, there really is the shadow of a person lurking outside his house like some motherfucking omen. He almost drops Nikita’s bag. 

“Who the hell –” he snaps, before going to get the door. 

When he opens it, he almost slaps his own face in utter disbelief.

“Before you say anything,” Nail Yakupov says hurriedly, holding up his hands in defense of Alex’s imminent outburst. “I’m not staying here, so, yeah, don’t worry about it. I’m staying at a hotel in Montreal. And Nikita and I planned this from the beginning, so you can’t even send me away, because that’d just be bad taste and, frankly, really rude.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” sputters Alex. “What the fuck, man? Why would you ever think I’d want to send you away?”

“You’re not in your right head,” Nail says, tapping Alex’s forehead before pushing his way inside. “If I’d called beforehand to tell you I was coming to visit, you’d say no, and get pissed off if I didn’t listen.”

“Why would I tell you that you couldn’t come? I don’t own Montreal, dude, you can fly here whenever you want.”

Nail rolls his eyes in that condescending way of his. “Because, idiot,” he says, flicking Alex’s forehead again. “I flew here for _you_.” 

Alex stills.

“No training with some special coach or whatever. Nikita actually has that excuse –”

“I really am here to train,” Nikita pipes up –

“— but I’m here only, and _only_ , to come see you, buddy,” Nail says, before grinning that dumb grin of his, the one that wrinkles his entire face. “Lucky you! An entire week of my beautiful face!” 

Alex punches him.

“What the fuck, why,” Nail wails, clutching his nose as Nikita hurries to his side. Both glare at Alex petulantly, as though this was somehow all _his_ fault. 

“What made you think I wanted to see your stupid face, you giant asshole,” Alex says, though he feels like he’s about to have a breakdown. He knows why. Alex has missed his best friends like a sore, and cutting himself off from them hasn’t helped in his trying to get over Brendan Gallagher. 

It’s just that Alex has doubted himself and doubted Nail. Alex used to talk about Brendan with Nail so much that he was starting to truly believe Nail was getting pissed at him for being so annoying with it. He hadn’t wanted to burden him, not when he knew he’d be a total mess after that Bruins game.

Nail opens his arms and Alex throws himself at him, and the two hug it out. 

To be honest, this is the best Alex has felt since Brendan Gallagher –

Well. Since Brendan. 

 

 

“Destroy that poster,” Nail says blankly when he enters Alex’s room. 

“He’s a really big fan of Zdeno Chara,” Nikita whispers.

“I don’t care. Get rid of it. Burn it down. And replace it with something else. Maybe I’ll send you an Oilers poster. With my face and my face only, plastered in the front. I’ll even have little dicks embroidered in the corners so you know how much I care about you.”

“Yak –” Alex begins.

“Take. It. Down.”

Alex sullenly obeys and unsticks the poster from his wall. 

“Lift your mattress,” Nail commands.

“What the fuck, why?” Alex yelps.

“Nikita, lift up Chucky’s mattress.”

Nikita scurries to follow orders, and lifts the mattress. BAMG sits there like a motherfucker, all glittering gold that’s visible a mile away. 

Nail gives Alex a _really, now?_ look and snatches the book up, having to wrestle Alex away to do so. 

“I’m a good friend, so I’m not going to look in this,” Nail states flatly, before he bursts into laughter. “What the fuck, who am I kidding, I’m totally going to look in this. But most importantly, I’m removing it from your care under the Bros Agreement: Act Eighty-Six. Never let another bro become an unhealthily obsessed, sad, mopey bro. It’s uncool.” 

Alex exhales angrily from his nose. He knows Nail means well – but still. “But I don’t _want_ to get over Brendan,” he says angrily. 

“I’m not telling you to get over Brendan,” Nail responds. “Whether you still want to be best friends with the guy or not, I don’t care, that’s none of my business. You get your friendship with him better than we do, so you can decide if it’s possible to fix, or even worth fixing. All I’m doing is removing evidence of the creepy, stalker-side of you, because chicks don’t dig that. And I’m going to buy dinner. That’s all I’m doing. Okay?” 

Alex relaxes and nods, because that’s fair, even though he’s going to miss BAMG. 

Nail taps his chin and looks thoughtfully around the room. His eyes settle on Alex’s laptop, and Alex holds his breath, but then relaxes it when Nail passes his gaze elsewhere.

Alex thinks he’s going to be in for a long Olympic break. 

 

 

The easiest thing about being with Nail is how in-tune they are with each other. They used to play together in Sarnia and were attached at the hip off-ice. It’s nothing like what he had with Brendan, but being together with Nail again settles something in Alex he hadn’t known was restless. 

Like, Nail knows exactly how Alex makes his protein shakes. And how Alex has this weird habit of taking off his shoes _before_ he goes inside. And how whenever they go out to a semi-fancy restaurant, he will _always_ order a burger with a side of fries. No. Matter. What.

These things come from spending a lot of time with another person. These things are learned, or grown. 

Brendan doesn’t know these things. He can tell immediately what mood Alex is in, or what the scrunch of his nose means, or who Alex was upset with in just a cursory glance. Little things that close friends can’t catch without being more than close friends. These things are inherent. 

But Alex doesn’t need those right now; he needs Nail Yakupov, who orders dinner for him without hesitation, like it’s a physical and tangible proof that there’s someone out there who understands him, who cares.

After dinner the three of them head to the Bell Sports Complex in Brossard, which is often open at certain times in the week to give players a chance to practice by themselves. Nail skates, and Nikita skates, and then, after a long period of watching gloomily, Alex joins them. Alex skates. 

Alex skates and feels one hundred percent.

Alex skates and almost forgets Brendan Gallagher. 

 

 

Eventually, the elephant in the room comes up in discussion.

“You know the real reason why I’m here,” Nail says quietly to Alex, while the two sit together in the stands, still dressed in full gear. They watch Nikita do his practice routine – stretching, skating, shooting. “Literally I came out of Edmonton to tell you to get your shit together.”

Alex says sullenly, “I haven’t been putting up points and I’ve been playing like shit and none of my teammates know what’s wrong with me, or how to deal with me.” 

“None of them have had feelings for another guy in the NHL,” Nail says kindly. “Who plays for a rival team. Or, at least, nobody we’ve ever heard of.”

“I don’t –” Alex says frustratedly, mashing his gloved fist on the seat before him, “I don’t have feelings for him.” 

Nail waits for Alex to continue.

Alex sighs. “My team has been carrying me this past month because I can’t pull my own weight.” 

“Pretty much.”

“I’m an idiot.” 

“Yup.”

“I’m the worst player in the league.”

“Well,” Nail says. “That’s debatable. A lot of people are saying the Oilers shouldn’t have picked me for first.” He looks immersed in this thought, and Alex feels a pang of guilt. He’s been so self-involved with his problems that he hasn’t even realized Nail needs help sometimes, too. His Sarnia teammate isn’t having the best season.

“I wish I was still in juniors sometimes,” Alex admits, and Nail looks up at him in surprise. “Not – not like, _in juniors_ , in juniors. But it’s fun to think back on it and remember how we killed it those years, and how there was all that talk about our potential and how early we’re going to go in the draft. Sometimes,” Alex says, swallowing hard. “I forget hockey isn’t the only important thing in my life.” 

Nail nudges Alex softly in the shoulder. “Call him,” he says firmly. 

But Alex shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“We’re both too competitive for our own good. We could never make anything last if we want both hockey and our relationship to come first.”

Nail raises an eyebrow. “Your relationship? That’s so gay. Dude, I’m friends with you, aren’t I? And we’re both super competitive, but we’re still bros, even if our teams beat each other.”

Alex makes a noise at the back of his throat and continues mashing his glove in the seat. “It’s…it’s different,” he says lamely. 

“So you _do_ admit there are ‘feelings’ involved,” Nail whoops triumphantly. 

“ _No_ , I’m just saying it’s different.” 

The Oiler snorts and Alex takes a deep breath as he struggles to continue. There isn’t an easy way to describe how he feels about Brendan…or what he wants from him. 

“Brendan is really important to me,” Alex says slowly. “I think…as important as hockey. He told me once that he was more excited to – to see me than to play against us. I thought the same thing, even though I felt horrible for it. Team loyalty, and all. But I mean – I wouldn’t want a world without hockey,” he confesses. He looks down at his skates and thinks of hours of hard work and sweat and regulated meals. Then he thinks about late-night conversations with his phone warm against his ear, and the little notification at the bottom of his screen that comes up whenever Brendan logs on Skype. “But I wouldn’t want a world without Brendan, either.” 

Nail is silent for a moment, before he shakes his head and grins. “Oh, man. You’re so gone for him, aren’t you?” 

Nail keeps saying that, but Alex still doesn’t know what he means by it. 

 

 

Alex calls Brendan. 

Alex calls Brendan with sweaty palms and dry lips. 

_Hey, this is Brendan Gallagher. Leave it at the beep._

_Beep._

He almost panics, if it wasn’t for Nail and Nikita pulling funny faces in front of him. He smiles briefly at them before ducking his head and muttering softly into the mic. “Hey, G-Gally. It’s me, uh, Alex. You probably know this, or – or maybe not, but, uh, we have a game at the end of March. Just wondering if you wanted to –”

“Hello?”

Alex startles, and almost drops his phone. “Hello?” he says too quickly, although he already knows that whoever picked up on the other end sounds nothing like Brendan Gallagher. “Who is this?” 

A confused look pass between Alex, Nikita, and Nail. 

“Uh, we’ve never spoken,” the voice comes, gruffly. Alex is so sure he’s heard it before, only louder and on the ice. “It doesn’t matter. Why are you calling Gally?” 

“I just want to talk to my friend,” Alex protests weakly. He’s not understanding why all the Bruins feel the need to protect Brendan from him like he’s a sickness. Brendan probably has a stronger bond with Alex than he does with any of his teammates. It’s not fair. If Brendan needed protecting, he has Alex for it. 

“Sorry, Alex. Brendan’s not available right now.”

“So, why do you have his phone?” Alex asks. Nail gives him a thumbs up. 

Rough laughter comes from the other end. “Just don’t call back, okay?” 

It stings like a slap in the face, but Alex pushes forward, angry. “You don’t have to talk for him,” he says. “I’m not fucking – I’m not – I’m not, like, _dangerous_ , or anything. Let him talk to me himself.”

“No can do.” 

Alex stands up, one hand over his free ear, voice rising dangerously. “This isn’t your business at all,” he spits.

“It kind of is. I wouldn’t normally interfere like this, because shit, I don’t care. Only you’re a Canadien, and Brendan’s a Bruin. And we don’t like you. You get it?” 

“I really don’t,” Alex says, though he does.

“You do.”

“No, I don’t!” Alex says, though he sort of does. 

“Okay, Alex Galchenyuk, then let me break it down for you,” the Bruin says. “It’s real sweet and all you have a giant crush on one of our players, but don’t get the rest of us swept up in all that drama. The NHL doesn’t have a place for faggots.”

All the blood drains from Alex’s face.

He hasn’t heard that word for almost five years. 

Nail is mouthing _What’s wrong?_ And Alex is seriously starting to regret this phone call. But there’s still one thing he has to make sure of first before he hangs up.

Because Nail knows he’s some degree of bi, most of his teammates have some vague impression of his obsession with Brendan, and some select teammates he’s closer to – like Prusty – _definitely_ knows about his massive crush; this all leads to good-humoured jesting and non-hurtful dick jokes between his friends, but no one’s ever outright come out to make any solid affirmation on Alex’s sexuality. All in all, no one cared that much, and would have been supportive either way. 

Except for, you know, that one douchebag that just has to ruin it for the rest of them. Because there’s always that one douchebag. 

“What did Brendan tell you about us?” he asks quietly. 

“Just that, you know. He thinks he has feelings for you. He thinks.” 

“Wait,” Alex says, struggling to take a breath. “Is this recent?” 

“He’s still moping about you around the locker room, yeah.” 

“And when you say the Bruins don’t like me, you really mean that you don’t like me, right?”

“Is it obvious?” 

And then Alex bursts into laughter. “You’re one,” he huffs, through peals of absolute happiness, “You’re one homophobic asshole, aren’t you? Why don’t you call Brendan a fag, too?” God, just saying that physically hurts him. Nail and Nikita both rise to their feet in alarm. “Because the only way you can deal with having a dude on your team who likes other dudes is by pretending they’re just _confused_!”

He hangs up immediately after he finishes shouting into the phone. Nikita has a panic-stricken look on his face, and Nail looks like he’s ready to give Alex a hug – but Alex doesn’t need any of that. He just looks at his two best friends, and laughs, and laughs.

Nail was right all along. Alex doesn’t regret that phone call. 

Because yes, there may be a single homophobic asshole on Brendan’s team intercepting all his calls in the belief that he’s helping Brendan out. But Alex isn’t worried about him one bit. 

All he can think about is how Brendan has feelings for him that are very, very recent.

And all this time he’d been afraid to call because he just thought Brendan didn’t care anymore. 

 

 

When Anna comes back from her trip, the first thing she does is give Alex a giant bear hug.

Alex buries his face in her tumbling hair and smells her. It’s kind of weird, but he’s always liked her scent, even though she uses very little perfume. Anna is motherly and caring and makes Alex feel all kinds of safe, and he’s just so, so glad she’s back. 

The first thing Anna asks him is “Are you okay?”

The first thing Alex responds is “Yeah.” 

 

 

For Alex, thinking about Brendan becomes less and less of a painful thing to do. Brendan’s more than just a waiting game now. The important thing for him isn’t to mope about Brendan, but to improve his game and help carry his team into the playoffs. If he can’t be that kind of person, he doesn’t think he deserves Brendan Gallagher’s attention anyway.

After the boys return home from the Olympics (with a disappointing loss for the Americans and Russians in men’s ice hockey), the season continues with undying fervor as though there’d never been a break in it. Nail and Nikita return home. Alex swears he’ll keep in better contact with them, and train with them during the summer. Alex misses Nail deeply. 

The Canadiens’ spirits have never been higher. Everyone notices when Alex suddenly starts to produce a lot more goals and return to his normal self. Michel Therrien switches lines a whole lot and everyone just seems to click. Alex plays with Pleky and Larry sometimes, and even with Patches and Davey on the first line, but manages to score no matter where he is. 

Alex hasn’t been keeping up with how the Bruins are doing lately, so he makes sure to start checking up on them once in a while. The Bruins pull ahead to first in the league with points. It only motivates Alex to do better – because now there’s something deeply intimate tenderly holding him to the Boston franchise. When he scores, he thinks, _watch me stand by myself, Gally._

He will never be over Brendan Gallagher.

But he will be okay. 

 

 

Like all things, the stalemate between him and Brendan eventually reaches a conclusion. 

It comes before their game in March against the Bruins, when Brendan Gallagher enters the Habs’ dressing room in full Boston gear. 

All the Canadiens give him a single look, before their heads snap to where Alex is sitting in a corner. 

He bites his tongue hard. 

“Hey,” Brendan says, with a shaky smile. “Can I just borrow Chucky for a second?”

Some guys immediately chime _who the fuck is chucky_ , but Alex is already standing up and making his way to the door. For some reason it feels like he’s having a déjà vu. Everything about this feels eerily familiar, and Alex is as calm and steady as Brendan is. Nothing about their reunion scares him at all. 

“Hey,” Alex says in return. 

Together, the two go out into the hall. Brendan keeps his eyes on his skates a lot of the time, or at least looking away from Alex, until they finally stop and turn and face each other. Alex wonders what’s wrong with Brendan. 

And then, and then Brendan digs around in his pocket before taking out a handful of mints and shoving them under Alex’s nose. 

“Your breath kind of smells,” says he, not really apologetically.

“Okay,” Alex replies before taking a mint, even though he hates them. He pops one into his mouth and drops the wrapper on the ground before remembering that they’re still the visiting team and he probably shouldn’t litter in the TD Garden’s visitor’s locker room. He picks up the wrapper sullenly and holds it in his hand. He thinks about mints and how he should probably brush his teeth more. 

“I,” Brendan starts, and Alex jumps a little in surprise, not having expected Brendan to actually _talk_ , like _talk_ talk. “How are you?” 

“I’m fine, thank you,” Alex replies. “You?” 

“Not bad.” The hands are shoved back in the pockets. It looks like Brendan’s chewing the inside of his cheeks, lost deep in thought and hesitation. “I’ve really missed you, Chucky.” 

Alex smiles, before biting his lip. “Me, too.”

And then Brendan does something unexpected. Brendan’s hands twist in Alex’s jersey, as though he’s preparing to fight him and needs to find leverage on the ice, but instead, Brendan just tugs on the jersey lightly and says, a little awkwardly, “I really hate seeing you in this colour. I think you’d look so much better in ours.”

The Sarnia Stings’ colours were gold and black, just like the Bruins, so Alex already knows how he looks in them. They’re not bad, but the Canadiens are his team now, and he’ll bleed red-blue-white until he dies. 

He smiles faintly. “Yours aren’t bad, I guess.” 

Brendan takes a deep, shuddering breath. 

“I know this is really overdue,” he begins, before Alex interrupts him.

“It’s okay.” 

Because he understands. Because he’s struck with how gorgeous Brendan’s face is up close, not at all like the ones in Google images. He realizes then that he wants to kiss Brendan’s face and also lick it but that would be inappropriate, and besides, Brendan is a Bruin, and Bruins probably wouldn’t want Habs licking their faces. There’s probably a fine that can be issued for that. “You don’t have to apologize for anything to me.” 

“It’s just — I hate losing more than I like to win, you know?”

“You and me both,” Alex agrees steadily. 

He can’t stop thinking about all those Google Image pictures, and how none of that can ever compare to the up-close-and-personal Brendan, whose face is littered with tiny scars and marks and Alex is already counting them before he can stop himself. They’re basically breathing the same air. 

This is what _feelings_ constitute, apparently. 

“But I was really immature, and I needed a lot of time,” Brendan continues. “I didn’t realize that if you truly l – like someone, then you’d be happy for them no matter what happens; whether that means they register another win, or you register another loss. God, is that too sappy?” 

“No sorority-girl moments,” Alex jokes weakly. 

Brendan’s face falls. “I heard about what Lucic said to you. It was the final straw in making me come talk to you again, you know – because I wanted to make sure you knew I hadn’t, like. Abandoned you.”

“Oh, was that him?” Alex says, unbothered. “I’ve already forgotten about it.” 

Brendan slowly reaches out and hugs Alex, and Alex returns it. He sniffs Brendan; Brendan doesn’t smell anything nice or sweet like his sister. Brendan kind of smells like shit, but that’s normal for hockey players, so Alex decides not to mention it. 

“I know you said not to apologize, but. I’m sorry,” Brendan whispers. 

“I forgave you a long time ago, Gally.”

“I know. But. I want to make it up to you.” They pull away, though Gally’s still hanging on to a finger. The Bruin breaks into a smile, and _God_ , how Alex has missed it. “This doesn’t…you still want to go see that movie, right?” 

And — _and_ — fuck, of course Alex still wants to go.

“Yeah,” he breathes. 

“I’ll pay. Dinner after, too.”

Alex swallows harshly. “I – I’m really glad we’re on rival teams, but that doesn’t stop us from – from this, Gally. Actually. I think it’s made me a better person because of it.” 

“Ah,” Brendan says. “Me too.”

There’s a pause.

“Thanks for coming back,” Alex says quietly. 

“You know I used to dream about what it’d be like if you were with the Bruins,” Gally jokes.

“Hey, me, too. Except with the Habs.” 

Gally laughs. And then he leans forwards. Alex closes his eyes quickly before he feels a feather-light kiss on the tip of his nose; then, tentatively, he lets his eyes flutter back open, just in time to watch a scarlet colour rise flush across Gally’s face. “Is this okay?” he asks Alex, and Alex nods. 

“I’ve wanted this for a really long time,” Alex admits quietly.

“Me, too.”

“I really, really like you,” Gally says. 

Alex just nods again. 

“Probably enough that I’m willing to date you, long-distance.” 

Maybe Alex is too quiet for just a touch too long, because suddenly Gally turns shy and lets go of Alex’s finger. “If — if you want to, of course.”

“No, I do,” Alex says hurriedly. “I really, really do. Brendan Gallagher — you have _no_ idea —”

“Oh, I do,” Gally says, laughing. “After you told me about Nail Yakupov, I thought to myself, what better way to find out about the guy I like than to ask his best friend?”

“You didn’t,” Alex gasps, horrified.

“I did. Talked to him about a week ago. Got all my feelings sorted out, and everything. But best of all, I learned about a book you call BAMG. Nail sent me pictures.”

Alex slides down to the ground in utter shame and buries his face in his hands. Damn Nail with his fucking mouth, damn him to hell. “This is embarrassing as fuck,” he says in a meek whisper. 

Gally sits down on the floor next to him and gently pries Alex’s hands away from his face. He kisses him again — this time on the lips, so sweet and soft that it leaves Alex wondering if it’d really happened at all. 

“It was kind of creepy,” Gally admits. “Like, stalker-ish creepy. But I’m actually just glad I know you like me back. I’ve had a crush on you since last fucking year.”

And that — that completely startles Alex, because _what_? He’d always assumed that he’d liked Brendan for far longer than Brendan liked him. “Explains why I forgave you so easily after you choked me, huh?” Gally says cheekily. “Fucking star-crossed, I’m telling you. But in a damn good way.”

They kiss again — noisily this time — the Bruin and the Hab, sitting on the floor of the sweaty-smelling hallway. Alex thinks about ceiling bumps and the Boston Bruins and Nail’s dick jokes and how, despite all these shitty things existing, he’s got Brendan Gallagher here with him, and he’s probably the luckiest damn guy in the whole wide world.

Brendan smiles the smile that would make the sun go blind.

 

 

Between coffee-over-video-chat dates, waking up to seventeen notifications on his phone – six of them being links to whatever funny Youtube videos that caught Brendan’s attention the night before – inside jokes involving memes, and a backlight that burns bright enough to possibly scar Alex’s eyesight forever, he and Brendan still somehow manage to find time for hockey. Their hockey finds them in the playoffs, pitted against each other like two rabid dogs thrown in a locked cage. Alex is the dog that feels indescribable joy at seeing the other amongst heated life-or-death trials, if only because it’d been such a long time since he had the company. Alex is quite possibly the worst player for the Habs when it comes to Montreal loyalty.

Brendan doesn’t care. They sneak nudges and small touches between plays. The Bruins don’t know. The Canadiens don’t know. Their teams only have eyes for the Cup; Brendan and Alex want the Cup and each other. 

When the Canadiens take out the Bruins, 4-3, to move on in the series against the Rangers, the first thing Alex does is skate over to his teammates wet and glittering with sweat, and holler obnoxiously. He notices Brendan’s brief moment of disappointment, but understands that if he were in that situation, he’d have been upset for a bit too. The important thing is that afterwards Brendan takes Alex out for movies, together together, and then a dinner date. And even if Alex is grinning ear to ear and can’t stop talking about all the goals he made, Brendan doesn’t seem to mind. 

In the end, they don’t win the Cup. But Montreal wins Boston. 

In the summer, Alex goes there for a bit to stay with Brendan. He witnesses firsthand the place Brendan’s carved for himself in the city.

Alex doesn’t like anything about Boston. But he adores Brendan. He takes that with him when he returns home for the new season. 

Maybe Boston’s won a little of Montreal, too. 

 

 

_end_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then Lucic gets fined 1000000000$. The story ends happily.


End file.
